


So You'd Save the World

by chalcopyrite



Category: Bandom, Disney RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalcopyrite/pseuds/chalcopyrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack on a free concert in Central Park brings superheroes to the rescue!  Kevin can be a professional while he's chasing villains, but there's something about that guitarist he wants to know more about.  But with so many things he can't say, can he get close?</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You'd Save the World

**Author's Note:**

> For akire_yta in the 2011 SDS Exchange! I hope you like it.  
> Title by the awesome Janelle Monae.

"No pollutants beyond the usual levels," Kevin says. "Nothing to indicate implanted electronics being controlled remotely. Do we have any idea what's causing this?" When the first mentions came in on the police radio about a free concert in Central Park getting rowdy, they didn't think it was anything that needed their attention, but the crowd is more than rowdy now. Kevin can see uniforms in the crowd, but the police are adding to the problem, not trying to help — whatever's behind the aberrant behaviour, it must be affecting them too. He points them out to Nick.

"It must be atmospheric in some way," Nick says. "You take crowd control, I'll try and find who set this up." He doesn't wait for an answer, just slides off sideways, gaining space to survey the entire area.

"Sure." Kevin looks down at the scene and isn't quite sure where to start. People are pushing each other and crushing closer and closer together, and they're all shoving towards the temporary stage. There are people on the stage, but they don't seem to be affected by whatever's going on; they're clustered together in the middle of the stage looking for exits, but the crowd has the stage hemmed in.

A teenager gets flattened against the front of the stage and three people try to climb over him like he's not even there. Kevin swoops down to pull him free, but as he gets close to the speakers, a deafening shriek of feedback comes through the suit's earpieces. He grits his teeth and yanks the kid out of the crowd as gently as he can, then goes up until the hideous noise fades out. The suit's telling him about weird subsonics in the music that it can't untangle and doesn't like. Kevin disables the outside feed — it's a disadvantage but he'll just have to pay attention to other cues — and radios Nick.

"I think it's something in the music affecting their minds. Use the soundproofing."

"Thanks. Can you locate where it's coming from?"

"No, I —" A wave of the crowd spills people on to the stage and they advance on the band who are still up there. "Evac first, gotta go."

"Be careful."

"Roger." Kevin's not really paying attention to Nick any more. The suit can muffle almost all of the sound from outside, enough that it doesn't seem to affect him the way it's affecting the unprotected people. They're focused on the band on the stage, who have been hemmed in and are looking more than a little nervous about this. None of them are playing, so they're clearly not the ones making the noises the suit doesn't like, at least not directly. Kevin starts with the one who hasn't climbed up on the drum riser yet, and one by one whisks them up and away, out of what seems to be the effective range of whatever is going on — it's connected to the music, Kevin's more and more sure of it — and leaves them on the roof of a nearby building.

The last one he picks up, a man with dark hair and grey eyes, waits until he's on the roof and then smacks Kevin's chest-plate. "My guitar!"

"What?"

"You left my guitar behind. They'll smash it, look at them."

One of the other band members tries to hush the guy, but Kevin wouldn't want his guitar smashed either, if he still played. He nods and goes back to the stage area — which he has to do anyway — and snags what he thinks is probably the guitar the guy was talking about — a nice Fender that looks custom-made. He's only just stashed it in the grid over the stage, out of reach, when Nick radios him again.

"Hardshell, I sent a sample of the music to FRANKIE. Those subsonics are affecting people's brainwaves, you need to cut the speakers."

That's easy enough, at least. The stage has more and more people pushing onto it, but the suit lets Kevin clear space as gently as possible. He gets in front of one of the speakers inadvertently, and staggers sideways — the sounds are loud enough that it feels like a physical shove, and enough filters through the soundproofing to make him feel dizzy.

"Focus," he mutters to himself, and gets around onto the safe side again. The cables he needs are the ones showing up on the EM spectrum, and then he just has to unplug them. The cables are barely a handful; he wraps them around one armored gauntlet, checks to make sure no one's standing where they're going to get zapped, and yanks. There's a bang, and a squeal of interference, and then it goes quiet so fast Kevin worries briefly that he's damaged his ears.

The suit says there's still music going, though, complete with the parts it really doesn't like, so Kevin looks around and spots the sound board, surrounded by barricades in front of the stage. He pushes his way over as gently as he can; there's an mp3 player jacked into the board, and he turns that off before he disconnects it. With that, the music finally cuts out.

"That was it." Nick sounds relieved and when Kevin looks around, it's clear why. The crowd on the edge of violence has been replaced with a group of confused people, many of them rubbing their ears and looking around like they never meant to be here at all.

"Emergency services are on their way," Nick tells him. "I'm in pursuit of our likely perp."

Kevin flies up again, to a height where he can see down into the streets, but anyone fleeing the scene in guilt is lost in the trickle of people wandering around in confusion, and he can't spot Nick's blue armor. A figure jumping up and down on a rooftop catches Kevin's eye. Oops, he almost forgot about them. "I'm going to finish up here and then head home."

"Right." Nick already sounds distracted, so Kevin doesn't feel bad about cutting the connection. He collects the Fender from its nest and takes it over to the rooftop where he left the band. He holds the guitar out — carefully, he doesn't want to crush it accidentally — and its owner has only just taken it out of his hands when Kevin's set upon by a small whirlwind.

"Oh my gosh, you're really a superhero, right?" She's tiny and dark-haired and moving so fast she's almost a blur.

"Something like that." He knows the suit flattens out his voice so it's not recognizable, but that just makes him hate talking more.

"I've heard about you! Thank you for rescuing us!"

"Yeah, that was awesome," another guy says. "But, uh, can we get down off the roof now?" He's holding very still with his bony shoulders folded in, and Kevin gets the impression he's not keen on heights.

"Sure, of course." Kevin may hate the voice, but he's glad to have the concealing face-plate every time he blushes. Which is less than he used to, sure, but it still happens.

He ferries them down to ground level one at a time, same as before, taking them over to the EMTs who are starting to arrive. The guy with the guitar is last, again, and just before Kevin puts him down, he says, "Thanks for getting the guitar. It's — important to me, you know?"

"I know," Kevin says, because he does, and then people are closing in trying to get pictures or autographs or soundbites, Kevin's not sure — Nick says he's not allowed to talk to reporters ever and neither is Joe — and he has to wave at the crowd and then get out of there before he can even get the guy's name.

*

It's still a while before he gets to go home — he and Nick got distracted trying to analyze the subliminal subsonics on the iPod Kevin picked up, which was made more challenging by them not being able to _listen_ to them; they had to just look at the wave forms — but while he's in the shower, he remembers what he'd meant to do, and hangs on to it all the way through drying his hair. "Hey, FRANKIE?"

"Kevin, what's up?" FRANKIE sounds cheerful today. Nick says Kevin's imagining it, that even though the AI has a personality, he doesn't have moods, but Kevin doesn't care. If you ask Joe, sometimes _Nick_ doesn't have moods, so what does he know?

"Need you to look something up for me." Kevin rubs the towel over the back of his neck one last time and flops down in the comfy chair facing the big window. "What was the band performing at the concert in Central Park this afternoon when the riot started?"

"No one was performing," FRANKIE points out. "But the ones who had just taken the stage were probably Next Time."

Kevin can't remember even glimpsing anything with the band name on it, he has no idea. "Do you have any pictures?"

"Onscreen." The big plasma over to the side flicks on, and a few pictures — mostly candids from gigs, mostly bad cellphone photos — scroll past in a slow slideshow. A lot of them focus on the singer, a skinny redheaded guy, but a few pictures in, Kevin sees the guy with the guitar.

"Stop on that one?" FRANKIE does, and Kevin studies the picture. "What's his name?"

"That's Michael Carden, called Mike. Guitarist," which Kevin knew, but anyway.

"I hadn't heard of them before." He doesn't pay that much attention to the music scene, but things do still catch his ear.

"The band has only played in a limited radius around Chicago before. The concert today was meant to start a short tour — Next Time and a few other newer bands."

Kevin really hopes that none of their stuff got damaged, now, not just the Fender he rescued. "Is everyone all right?" That probably should have been his first question.

"Medical staff treated people for shock and dehydration, but there were only minor injuries."

"Good." Kevin stretches out his legs and winces when his right ankle pops. "So where are they playing next?"

"The first spot on the tour proper is in Washington DC, the day after tomorrow."

"Neat." Kevin's already considering how to sneak away to get there. There might be a reason the concert was attacked — it could be a valid investigation! He might also want to see how Mike Carden plays that guitar Kevin saved for him, but that's completely secondary, he's sure.

There's a footstep in the doorway — barely; it's in sock-feet on carpet — and Joe comes in. He flops down on the couch near Kevin's chair and starfishes out so he's covering almost the whole thing. He waves at Kevin and FRANKIE's greetings. "Hey, FRANKIE. Anything on the gossip sites about my impending messy breakup?"

"There's kind of a lot, Joe," FRANKIE says. "Twenty-three major sites have referenced your name in the last week, and ten of them had some amount of factual information. Fourteen of them speculated on a breakup. Can you give me narrower parameters?"

"Uh. Is anyone going nuts over this evening yet?"

"One report of 'hot happenings,' two sources claiming Mindy Farnassus stormed out of Leonto without finishing her appetizer, one teaser for pictures but they're failing to produce the goods so far, and one source close to you saying you always hated her anyway."

"Great. See if you can trace that last one?"

"On it."

"Great date, huh?" Kevin asks.

"Oh man." Joe groans and drags a hand down his face. "Complained the place was too 'last month,' was rude to the staff, sent four texts before the food even arrived, and then I disagreed with her and she tried to throw her drink at me."

"Tried?"

"She'd already finished it, so she just threw the glass. She's got lousy aim."

"Wait, Mindy Farnassus — isn't she the one who went to one gala with Nick and then claimed he proposed? And then tried to sue for breach of promise?"

Joe looks shifty. "Maybe."

"So you should have known what you were getting into."

"Pretty much, yeah." Joe leans back and stretches. "But she's hot. And like you said, at least I knew what I was getting into."

"Joe…" Kevin sighs. He knows this is going to end with their mom asking if he won't try to be a good influence on Joe. It's not that Kevin didn't try, it's that Joe is — well, he's Joe. And maybe Kevin's a little shakier on the good influence thing than he needs to be to be really convincing. After all, he hasn't wound up in the tabloids, but that's because he's fairly certain that if he _did_ , something would actually explode.

"So I heard you and Nick had fun while I was busy being photographed," Joe says.

"Actually, Joe, they were photographed as well," FRANKIE says. He brings up a shaky video clip, probably from someone's phone, of Nick chasing after a guy wearing way too much green spandex and a pair of giant headphones.

"Go Nicky!" Joe cheers. "Wow, the costuming standards have gone down for supervillains, haven't they?"

"He did make an effort," Kevin argues. "I mean, he bothered with spandex."

"And he shouldn't have, that's the problem," Joe says. The video shifts to a different clip, this one less shaky and from closer in, of Kevin ferrying the band members from the rooftop down to the ground. It must have been taken after the civilians were clear; a corner of an ambulance nudges into shot when the camera turns a little.

"And go Kevin! Did you get her number?" Joe points at the blonde drummer, who Kevin-on-screen has just set down on the pavement.

"Of course not."

"Too bad, bro. She would have given it to you, totally." From the way she's still bouncing up and down on her toes as Kevin collects another of her band mates, Joe's probably right.

"Yeah, but—" It makes Kevin uncomfortable, the way people only see the suit and think they know him. He doesn't mind being a public figure, it's when people forget that he's just a _figure_ that he has problems.

"I know, I know," Joe says, and pokes at him with one toe. "You should go out, though, Kevin. Try to meet someone." His smile is sympathetic — after all, Joe and Nick had front row seats for what went down the last time Kevin tried to meet someone.

"Maybe," Kevin dodges. "I've just been busy."

"Yeah, I hear you." Joe stretches his feet even further, batting at Kevin's knees with his socked toes, then relaxes and slides off the sofa. "I'm going to go sleep in an actual bed. You should try it, I hear they're almost as comfy as lab benches."

"Go tell Nick that," Kevin shoots back. "He was still down there when I left."

"FRANKIE?"

"Nick is still in Lab Three, Joe."

"Aw, man. Don't suppose you could get him out of there, could you?"

"The last time I tried, he threatened to disable all of my waldoes, Joe."

"Aw, man," Joe says again. "Right, I'll go get Nicky, and _then_ I'm going to bed. Night, Kevin."

"Good night."

Joe shuffles off, and Kevin turns around again to watch the city. The last of the light has faded out of the sky, and everything's spread out like a moving starscape below Jonas Tower. Lights blink on and off and move in neat lines or unpredictable curves; from up here, it looks incredibly precise and incredibly distant.

Kevin pushes himself up to his feet before he can get too maudlin. "Turn the screen off, will you FRANKIE?" he asks. It clicks off and fades back flush with the wall. "Thanks. Let me know if anything important happens."

"How important, Kevin?"

"Oh, level three and above, I guess." Anything lower-priority than that can wait, or won't need his attention. "And can you tell Mom I'm not available when she calls."

"You know she won't believe me."

"Yeah, I had to try." Kevin brushes his teeth and leaves his sweatshirt over the back of a chair. "Good night, FRANKIE."

"Good night, Kevin. Would you like music?"

"No thanks." The lights dim automatically, and Kevin looks out the polarized glass at the lights. He imagines he can almost hear the noises they make, all the way up here, but before he can start to make sense of them, he's asleep.

*

If anyone had asked him, Mike would have guessed that being attacked by a supervillain — or a weird guy in a costume, whichever — was the sort of thing that would take time to sort out, but apparently here in New York they're so used to it that the police just asked them all a few questions, determined no one was hurt or wanted to press charges, and let them get back to their lives. Mike's happy that it didn't cost them a day or anything — having to make up dates when they've only just gone out would suck — but he's even gladder that it was set to be a hotel night anyway. Everyone really is fine, the EMTs said so, but he wasn't looking forward to driving all night after the weirdness of the afternoon.

Fez won the toss to have the bed to himself, so Mike's out on the balcony of the cheap motel they have rooms at, getting in some time by himself before he goes back to the shared room. Besides, the cafe across the street is ambitious enough to have free wi-fi, but not savvy enough to lock it, and the signal just reaches this side of the motel. He should probably email his Mom, let her know he's okay and so is everyone else.

"Whatcha doing?" Sarah slides down the wall next to him and leans over his shoulder to peer at the screen.

"Quit that." Mike bats at her, but she just ducks away and comes around the other side.

"Why are you reading articles about superheroes?"

Mike shuts the lid of the laptop. "I just got curious after the thing this afternoon. Like, you hear about them, but I hadn't actually paid attention to what they do."

"Aw, did being swept off your feet turn your head?" Sarah tips her head onto his shoulder and bats her eyelashes.

"Brat." He shrugs enough to make her head bounce, but not enough to knock her off. Anyone else'd be gone already, but he'll take it from her. "I'm allowed to get curious."

"So what'd you find?" She sits up and opens the computer.

Mike shrugs. "A bunch of pictures, not that much real information. I don't think they could possibly be responsible for everything people claim they are."

"They are superheroes, though, right?" Sarah scrolls through the pictures. "They look pretty together."

Mike looks over. It's a picture of all three of them; the glossy red and blue and purple armor makes them look like fakes, but the picture caught them with their heads tilted together, and the tipped-over car in the background suggests it's not someone taking pictures of models or something. "I guess."

"So which one's which?" She clicks through his open tabs. "Who calls themselves Bulletproof? Isn't that asking for trouble?"

"Same kind of person who has purple armor, I guess."

"I guess. So then the blue one's Carapace — these guys need help with names — and the one who rescued us was Hardshell. Sounds like a candy."

"They kind of look like candy."

"Yeah. Ooh, speculations on their real identities?" She looks at him and grins. "Just a bunch of pictures, yeah?"

"There was a link," he mumbles. It's true, there was. That it was three pages back is something he's just going to gloss over, thanks.

"Hmm." Sarah scrolls down and keeps reading. "I'm pretty sure they aren't secretly Tom Cruise. Superheroing would get in the way of filming, right? And Tom Cruise is kind of old. And creepy."

"Isn't he short, too? I mean, those guys look pretty tall."

"Oh, boy." She lets him have the computer back and slumps against the wall. "If I had super-awesome body armor, I'd totally be six feet tall." She considers for a second. "Maybe seven, but it might get hard to walk."

Mike thinks about it too. "You could add it on top, like have a fake head."

"The bad guys would be so surprised when they tried to knock my head off and I just kept coming. It wouldn't be so awesome if they tried to shoot me in the chest and I got shot in the face instead, though."

The door beyond her opens and Fez peers out. "Who's getting shot in the face?" He looks at Mike. "Were you provoked?"

"No one's getting shot, Fez," Sarah says. "Just you, any minute now."

He chokes on a swallow of water and sputters for a second. "Me? What'd I do?"

"Nothing," Sarah says and smiles sweetly. "Yet. Don't worry, you'll never see it coming."

Mike leaves them to it and opens the computer again, sliding closer to the railing to get a little more signal. He genuinely does want to see what's out there about Hardshell, along with all the conspiracy nuts and reports of secret robot babies.

Some guys from one of the other bands come out in a few minutes, drawn by the noise, and then Eric sticks his head out to tell Mike the shower's free, so Mike gives it up for now.

*

It turns out Next Time's music isn't bad when it's not being used as a cover for evil mind-altering soundwaves. At least, Kevin likes it — it's upbeat, but it feels laid-back at the same time, something he'd be happy to listen to for a lot longer than the short set they get.

They look a lot more in their element here, up on stage, than they were when Kevin saw them last. But then, no one looks their best when they're being rescued from a crazed mob, Kevin figures. He's pretty sure he recognizes the guitar that Mike is playing, and he's even more glad that he went back to rescue it.

The set comes to a close, the singer hollering out directions to their merch table and a "Thanks, and good night!" Most of the crowd loses interest in the stage then, either taking the chance to pile up at the bar or else shoving forward to be closer when the next band comes on. Kevin stays where he is, though, and watches Next Time clear the stage. They're doing almost all of the work themselves, with help from just one guy Kevin thinks works for the club, but they move quickly, like they're used to each other. Kevin stays out of the way while they're doing the complicated bits, but when all the cables are wound up and it's to the stage of repacking the bus or trailer or whatever, he drifts over to the corner of the stage and smiles up at the drummer. "Can I help carry?"

She studies him for a few seconds, then nods sharply. "Yeah, okay. Bring that and follow me." She points at a drum case and adds, "Do not drop it."

"I won't, I promise."

Kevin's not a slob, but it's easier to let the suit do the heavy lifting, since he's usually wearing it when he needs that sort of thing, and he's sweating by the time he's hauled the drum case out to the trailer behind the band's van. The drummer isn't showing any signs of difficulty with her load, though, and Kevin doesn't want to wimp out of something she probably does most nights. On the other hand, he has to admit she looks more buff than he does.

She lifts her case into the trailer, sliding it to one side and wedging it in what looks like a very particular place. Kevin doesn't interfere — she looks like she knows exactly what she's doing, and he'll only get in the way.

"I think this is the last one."

The voice behind Kevin makes him jump, but not — thankfully — drop the case. "Hey, Sarah."

"Hey." She cranes her neck around. "Oh, thanks."

Mike puts another drum case down on the asphalt. "This guy isn't giving you any trouble, is he?" He eyes Kevin.

"He offered to help."

Mike doesn't look like he takes that as an answer, but Sarah just gives the case she was placing a final shove and backs out of the trailer. "That was the last case, right?" Mike goes to pick it up again, but she points at Kevin's case. "That one first."

Kevin lifts it into the trailer, and she stows it, then the one Mike brought, then stands back and slams the doors. "We're gonna have to repack the last of it when those guys bring back that amp they borrowed, but it's mostly done."

"The guys are out front talking to people; you coming?"

"Yeah, sure, soon as I get some water or something." She glances over at Kevin. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem."

"I think there was a cooler backstage somewhere," Mike says. "We'll be right behind you."

"You're not subtle, Mike." Sarah rolls her eyes, but she heads towards the backstage door.

When she's out of earshot, Mike catches Kevin's elbow — gently, but still — and leans in to say, "You're not going to bother her, right? She does not need another asshole groupie."

"I wasn't going to bother her," Kevin protests, but Mike just squeezes a little harder. "Really, I wasn't. I just asked if I could help."

"So she said." Mike eases up a little, but he doesn't let go until Sarah opens the back door again and yells at them.

"Mike, quit threatening people and come sign things!"

"Coming," Mike yells back. "Okay, fine, but I'm keeping an eye on you." He looks — fierce is the only word Kevin can come up with. It makes him look alive the same way he did when he was playing, and Kevin shivers.

"I'll behave, I promise."

"Good."

Keeping an eye on Kevin seems to involve bringing him along to sign things, which Kevin is fine with. He hangs back when they reach the knot of fans surrounding a few of the other band members, but Mike really does keep track of where he is.

Sarah bumps him with her shoulder. "Sorry about Mike," she says. "He gets protective."

"I can tell," Kevin says. "It's fine, I'm the same way about my brothers." Not Joe, so much — Kevin's kind of given up — but Nick. He and Joe both worry about Nick, especially after that fiasco with Miley tipping off the paparazzi because she wanted her photo in the paper.

Sarah makes a face. "Yeah, but I can actually take care of myself." She pats Kevin's arm where she bumped it before. "Don't worry, he likes you enough or he would have just yelled and chased you off." She uncaps her Sharpie again and goes back to the group.

When the last of the fans has trickled away, Mike looks at Kevin directly instead of out of the corner of his eyes. "You're still here." He sounds a little surprised.

Kevin shrugs. "Yeah. Um, you sounded good."

"Thanks." Mike studies him. "Why do you look familiar?"

"I don't know?" Kevin can at least be sure they've never met face-to-face before, and he looks totally different when his hair's hidden under a hat like this. "Why?"

Mike shakes his head. "Nothing, I just — I don't know. Anyway, thanks."

"I know you!" someone exclaims from next to Kevin's ear, and he winces. He doesn't want to be recognized as one of the Jonas brothers, not in this context or this crowd. He can't decide whether to ignore the guy or turn around, and while he's frozen in indecision, the guy half-lurches into him and drapes an arm over his shoulder, which pretty much makes the decision for him.

"You were the one right down front for the whole set!" the someone declares. "Mike, this is the guy I was talking about." Kevin can just turn his head enough and get far enough away to see that hey, it's the lead singer. Who clearly has been wasting no time since the girls stopped asking for autographs,, because he's drunk enough to be hugging Kevin.

"You are," Mike says. "I thought you said I'd never seen you before."

"Er, not before tonight?" Kevin offers.

Mike eyes him a little bit funny, Kevin thinks, but says, "Fair enough. Eric, let him breathe."

"But he's clearly a fan! If I let him breathe, he might escape," Eric says. "What's your name, anyway, Clearly-A-Fan?"

"I'm Kevin?" They don't need his last name, he thinks. Not that musicians and Economist readers overlap much, but musicians and tabloid readers might, and the Jonas name turns up in those a lot, too.

"Are you sure? Are you _reeeeeally_ Kevin?" Eric peers at him sideways. "We could give you a different name if you like."

"No, I'm definitely Kevin." Kevin tries to squirm away from the draped arm, but that just makes Eric hug him tighter. He's like an inebriated octopus, or maybe a squid. Kevin can't remember if those have arms, or just tentacles.

"Eric," Mike says, like he's bored and amused all at once. "We've talked about bothering groupies and how you shouldn't."

"But he's not a groupie," Eric says. "I can tell he's — oh. Oh, I see." He finally lets go of Kevin's neck. "I beg your pardon. And yours." He sketches a weird little half-bow at Kevin.

"Um, it's okay?" Kevin looks over at Mike for some clue as to whether this is normal behavior for this guy — it seems to be, but he'd like to be sure — but Mike's just standing with his arms crossed, glaring at Eric.

"Why are you in the band, again?"

"Someone has to be," Eric tells him loftily. "Ooh, Sarah!"

"Yes, Eric?"

"Can we go find the beer again?" He holds out both arms like a zombie, though he's a lot less threatening. "Will you give me a piggyback?"

"We can go find the beer if you can walk there on your own," Sarah tells him.

"I'm not that drunk," Eric says. He may not be as drunk as Kevin thought, because he walks off in a perfectly straight line. He has to correct after a few steps so he's actually pointing at the door, but it's a mathematically precise correction.

"Sorry about that," Mike says. "Eric is — Eric."

"I saw," Kevin says, and Mike snickers. "Is he… usually like that?"

Mike shrugs. "He has to goof or he worries he'll get too serious and lock up or something. He's a good writer, just a little offbeat." He kicks at the pavement. "Like the rest of us, I guess. Um, you wanna go back in?"

"Fine by me." Kevin shrugs. "So how did you guys get together?"

"I'm still not sure," Mike tips his head back and studies the sky as they mosey back towards the venue. "I was at kind of a loose end, Eric was writing but it was just him, I'd run into Sarah before a few times. I'm still not sure where Fez came from." He looks over at Kevin. "It seemed like one day I looked up and we'd sort of turned into a band without me noticing before. So we decided to go with it."

"You sound really good together," Kevin says. "Like — I don't know. Like you know each other."

"We just clicked." Mike shrugs and his mouth twists sideways. "I know it won't last forever, but it's good for now."

"Hey, don't assume it's going to end like that," Kevin says. "All sorts of things could happen."

"Whatever." Mike pulls the door open and holds it for Kevin. "So you're hanging out with us for a while, right?"

It's not really a question, so Kevin doesn't really need to say "Yes," but he does anyway.

*

"Kevin, this is a surprise." His mom's voice is warm, but it has a dry note to it all the same. "What did I do to deserve all my boys home for dinner the same week?"

"Sorry, Mom. I know it's been a while." Kevin bends to kiss her cheek and washes his hands at the kitchen sink. "Nick and Joe are already here?"

"They came in the door, and Nick said something about testing something in the garage, and I haven't seen them for more than half an hour," Denise sighs. "I think your father is out there watching whatever they're doing. Are they likely to blow anything up?"

"No idea, sorry. I don't know what Joe's been working on; Nick's been doing something with harmonics." Of course, he's doing things with harmonics that turned a toughened glass wall into glitter, a couple of days ago, but Kevin's not going to mention that part. His mom likes her windows in one piece — and besides, Nick's probably not going to do it again, not with their dad there.

"You boys, getting so wrapped up in your tinkering." Denise smiles indulgently. "Now, are you going to help me, or are you just taking up space in my kitchen?"

"What can I do?" Kevin holds up his hands. "We exist to serve." Joe rolls his eyes and says food is why takeout exists, and Nick worries more about the nutritional profile than the taste, but Kevin likes getting his hands messy and chopping things up, combining them to make something tasty. He gave FRANKIE a cooking function a few months ago, mostly to see if he could, but even though FRANKIE can now turn out a recipe-perfect terrine or roasted quail, Kevin thinks the food lacks a little something; the human touch, if you will. Not that he'd ever tell FRANKIE that, of course.

Still, it's enough like mechanics in that certain things have expected results, and enough different in that sometimes things don't do what you want, for Kevin to find cooking interesting. Besides, if he hadn't learned to dice shallots, he'd never be able to talk to his mom when she's in the kitchen, since it's impossible to be in there with her without being assigned a job.

By the time Nick and Joe and their dad reappear, he's been caught up on what she's been doing — she administers the Jonas Foundation, and he knows what she's been doing for the company, of course, but getting reports is different from hearing her talk about what she's been doing, the people she's talked to, what she thinks. Kevin and his brothers may be the weirdly wired brains and busy hands behind Jonas industries, but their parents — Kevin likes to think they're the heart, in more ways than one.

"Denise, you know that stump I've been saying I'll get taken care of?" Paul Jonas comes into the kitchen drying his hands on a towel. "The old pine tree?"

"The one that's been sitting there rotting long enough the Homeowner's Association is on my case? I know the one." Denise's voice is dry — the tree went down in a storm almost a year ago, and despite all the good intentions he talks about, her husband hasn't had anyone come and deal with it.

"Well, they won't be complaining any more." Kevin's dad gestures to Nick and Joe, who followed him in. "Nick's done something with — what was it again, Nick?"

"Directed harmonics," Nick says, grinning. "Nothing left to do but rake up the pieces. You want a nice fire for Christmas, Mom?"

"How'd you do it?" Kevin asks.

"Added a parabolic focuser." Joe looks smug. "It's fun."

"I didn't know you'd gotten it to that point," Kevin says. Last he'd heard, the latest project ran more towards wide-spread damage, nothing as exact as shredding a tree stump.

"Well, we haven't seen all that much of you lately," Joe says. "Since you've been 'busy'." His grin only gets more obnoxious as he puts air-quotes around the word.

Of course their mom is on that like a shot. "Are you seeing someone, Kevin? You didn't mention that. No, sit down, Joe, it's all ready to go and you'll just get in the way."

They all sit obediently, and join hands for a short grace — Kevin has to stop himself from peeking, and he knows Joe's looking around ever since Kevin caught him at it when they were teenagers. There's no chance of it actually diverting their mom, though. "So, Kevin?"

"It's not like that, Mom," he says. "I've been spending some time checking out a few bands, nothing important."

"Important enough you haven't been home in the evening for — how long is it, Nick?"

"I couldn't say." Nick shakes his head sadly while Kevin tries to set them both on fire with his mind. Laser eyes, that should be his next modification to the Hardshell armor. "My memory doesn't go back that far any more."

Kevin puts his fork down and buries his face in one hand while his evil brothers snicker on the other side of the table. "Okay, fine," he admits. "There sort of is someone, but we're just friends, honestly."

"Is she in a band?" Denise asks.

"He's a guitarist." Kevin can feel his dad go quiet up at the head of the table, but his Mom just keeps going.

"Well, are we going to get to meet him?"

Kevin has the most awesome, supportive Mom he could ask for, even when she tries to match-make. He just wishes she'd stop part of that. "Really, we're just friends."

"Mm-hmm." Denise is pretending to believe it for now. Kevin picks his fork up and starts eating again, not making eye contact with anyone else in the room.

Their dad clears his throat. "So how did you boys get the idea to use sound waves like that?"

"There was a disturbance a few weeks ago, someone tried to disrupt a concert in Central Park by adding a signal to the music," Nick says. He flicks his eyes over to Kevin for just a second. "I guess that just got us thinking about sound."

"Were you able to make it work long-range? It was only effective within a few feet, right, Nick?"

"The focuser extends the range a little—" Nick waves a hand at Joe, who bows slightly in his seat— "But it's still a close-up sort of thing. I don't think it'll have any particular useful application, but it was interesting to work on."

"Actually, Dad, do you have any other trees or anything that are in the way?" Joe asks. "We could take care of them, too."

Somehow, Kevin suspects Joe's time is going to be taken up with making this into something he can put on his suit, even if it's only useful for breaking through walls or something. Actually, that's not a bad idea.

*

"You again." Mike isn't even surprised to see Kevin after shows any more. Or, he wasn't surprised when he spotted him near the front of the crowd about halfway through their set, while Eric was in the middle of some piece of chatter. It must have been good; the two girls in front of Kevin were bouncing up and down when Mike looked over.

"Me again," Kevin agrees.

"Are you following us or something?" Mike's busy packing up his guitars, but he slants a smile sideways at Kevin.

"Something like that?" Kevin rubs at the back of his neck. "I like the music, I figured I'd tag along with the tour for a while." He fidgets for a second, then picks up one of the cables slung across the stage and starts coiling it up.

"Watch out, we'll give you a job." Mike nudges at Kevin's foot with his own. "Ever thought of teching? One of the guys came down with stomach flu two nights ago."

Kevin shakes his head. "No, I — I don't know that much about instruments, really. And I already kind of have a job."

"All right." Mike shrugs. "If you rethink it, though, lemme know."

"I will," Kevin promises. He keeps his head ducked down over the cable — Mike's pretty sure it doesn't take that much attention to get it right.

Mike watches him for a second, then suggests, "Wanna help me take these out to the van?"

"Sure!" Kevin picks up one of the guitar cases, then tries to lift the coil of cable over his shoulder along with his backpack. "Uh."

Mike bites his lip; he doesn't want to laugh at Kevin, he just looks so dismayed. "Gimme the other end of that." With each of them carrying a guitar and slinging the cable between them, they can get moving. It works until they get to the first doorway — Kevin hangs back, then tries to go ahead when Mike waits, then they bump into each other and get almost wedged. The case Kevin's carrying bumps into the doorframe.

"Sorry!"

"It's probably had worse in the trailer," Mike tells him. "Okay, you go first, how's that?"

They manage to sidle down the hallway and out into the parking lot like a weird electronic crab, then rearrange themselves — "Wait, no, turn the other way!" "This has to look ridiculous." — and make it all the way to the trailer without any more slapstick. The big stuff is already in, so Mike adds the guitars, puts the cable in a space that fits it, and steps back from the slammed doors to find Kevin standing closer than he expected.

"Sorry, nearly got you there."

"It's okay." Kevin doesn't move away.

Mike studies him, in the weird glow of the lights on the far side of the lot, and the diffuse orange lights from whatever town they're in, and the glaring security lights at the back of the venue. It's hard to read Kevin's expression, but when he licks his lips it's crystal-clear. It feels like all the air between them has rolled up into one tight thread, humming like a D chord.

"Let me know if I'm getting this wrong," Mike says, his own voice quiet enough it sounds strange. He leans in a little, pauses halfway but Kevin's still not backing off. His eyes are closed — no, half-closed; he's watching Mike's mouth. That's a clear enough go-ahead for now, Mike decides, and steps in the rest of the way.

He's expecting Kevin to be — not inexperienced, but maybe a little hesitant. Shy, like he is with new people. He's not. He stills for a second when Mike's lips touch his, but then he moves forward. Mike ends up backed against the doors of the trailer, with one of Kevin's hands pressed against the small of his back and the other one in his back pocket. His own hands are full of cloth, Kevin's t-shirt bunched up in his fingers. The door latch is poking him in the back of the shoulder.

It's unexpectedly hot.

Kevin's thorough in his kisses, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it regardless. It's not — he's not pushing Mike, he's just very clear in what he wants. Mike's not about to argue, not when it means Kevin's tongue tracing over the roof of his mouth, Kevin's teeth scraping at the corner of his lower lip, Kevin's hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck as Kevin nuzzles at his collarbone.

"Fuck!"

Kevin freezes up and backs up as far as Mike's grip on the back of his shirt will let him. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get—" He lets go with one hand to gesture inanely.

"No, no, it's good." Mike reels him back in by the shirt. "Really good. Just, um—" he adds as a thought crosses his mind. "Maybe not in the middle of the parking lot?" They're more over towards the edge, really, but still — Mike doesn't care much for being public entertainment.

Kevin backs right up, letting go of Mike entirely. "Yeah. Bad idea." He hunches his head down and looks around, like he's trying to see if anyone's watching them.

"Hey, it's all right." Mike reaches out, but Kevin just backs up even more.

"I'm sorry — I can't."

"Okay." Mike drops his hand. Something just went seriously hinky, and he wants to know what it was. "Why don't we go—" He's going to suggest one of the tiny rooms backstage in the venue, or even just the van, which at least has padded seats. He'd like to go back to the kissing, but he'd like Kevin to be on board with that too, and there's clearly _something_ that needs to be worked out here first. Kevin's phone interrupts him before he can settle on an end to the sentence, though, shrilling out in a persistent tone that sets Mike's teeth on edge.

Kevin whips it out of his pocket. "I'm sorry, it's my brothers — I have to go." He darts away from the trailer, his backpack swinging from one shoulder. Mike gapes for a second, then follows him, but even though he'd swear he's not that far behind Kevin when he slams through the door, Mike can't find him anywhere.

*

Kevin's not sure how he's going to open the conversation with Mike when he goes to the show a few days after running out on him. He can't exactly open with, "It's not you, I just had to go help stop a very strange man from tying all the cables under Park Avenue into a giant knot." He can't think of a good reason for Hardshell _or_ Kevin Jonas, not without blowing at least one cover, and that's no good.

As it turns out, though, Mike solves the problem for him. Sort of, anyway. Kevin's not sure if Mike sees him lurking near a side wall during the set — he's not going too close to the stage — but he's certain Mike sees him afterwards, hanging back from the group of fans around the band, posing for pictures and asking for autographs and chattering. Mike just looks at him for a long second, then tips his head on one side, like he's asking, _What are you going to do now?_

Kevin has no idea. Something is going to have to give, and he can't figure out how to balance his growing friendship with Mike against the prospect of being tabloid-fodder right now. He needs space to think.

He's standing outside the doors, looking around to try and figure out which direction offers the most cover for him to put the suit back on and just go home, when there's a voice behind him. "Kevin?"

He turns around, and it's Mike, of course. Kevin doesn't know how he got away from the crowd, except that Eric is a pretty distracting guy.

"Mike. I'm sorry about last time. I had to—"

Mike shakes his head. "No, don't. I — look, whatever went wrong, I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"No, no." Kevin holds his hands up like he can push the thought away. "It wasn't that, it's — can we talk?"

Mike jerks his head back towards the doors. "Yeah." He goes ahead of Kevin, sliding past people and only looking back a couple of times. They end up in a small, dingy room with an old couch, some chairs, a mirror, and a bunch of bags scattered around. Green room or something, Kevin guesses. Mike closes the door behind them, then circles around so he's on the far side of the room, with Kevin between him and the door. "What's up?"

His voice sounds like he's talking to Sarah, more gentle than Kevin wants it to be. The thoughts whirling around his head seem to crystallize, then align into a new pattern, the way they do when he finally gets the right angle on a problem he's been worrying at for days. Suddenly, it really is that simple. Take a chance — or not. Kevin doesn't do what he does because he likes doing what's been done before.

"I'm sorry I got spooked." Mike starts to say something, but Kevin cuts him off. "Not like that." He crosses to the door, checks there's no one outside, then locks it. He can't quite figure out how to explain, and ends up just pulling out his wallet — Nick would yell at him for a security breach, but honestly, if anyone gets Kevin's wallet while he's wearing the armor, he has bigger problems than his secret identity staying intact. He pulls out his driver's license and holds it out to Mike.

"Your name is Kevin Jonas?" Mike clearly knows there's something he's not getting. "Okay?"

Kevin takes the license back, then holds out one of his business cards. The _Jonas Industries_ blazoned across the top is impossible to miss, and the _JI_ logo is — well, Kevin can see it from here, on the music player sticking out of someone's bag.

"You're Kevin Jonas," Mike says again, but it sounds completely different this time. He looks from the card, to Kevin, then back. "Okay." He holds the card out.

Kevin takes it, his heart sinking. There aren't all that many ways this can go, and most of them aren't outcomes Kevin likes. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything before."

"You've been — what, slumming?" Mike's voice is flat.

"I liked your music." That's nothing but the truth. "I didn't want people following me around. I didn't want to make it all about me."

"That would happen just by you being here?" Mike's tone is heavy with disbelief.

Kevin shrugs. "I'm not the flashy one, but it seems like Joe can't go out for lunch without someone taking a picture of his menu."

"Huh." Mike's face is still blank, but he's looking at Kevin like his brain is working overtime. "So the other night?"

"Nick really did send a message. They needed me."

"In that much of a hurry? What the hell for?"

"Family business. I really can't tell you any more about it, I'm sorry."

"Worried I'll steal your ideas?"

"Worried my brother will kick my butt," Kevin says drily. Nick really did make them all sign NDAs to cover intellectual property and patents, but legalities are nothing to what he'd do to Kevin if he found out he spilled their _other_ secrets.

Mike nods slowly. "Wait, hang on. You're some kind of zillionaire, right?" He doesn't wait for Kevin's embarrassed shrug. "And if your brothers needed you in New York — you're not actually just bumming around following the tour."

"No," Kevin admits.

"This involves some amazingly expensive kind of private transportation, doesn't it?"

"Yes?"

Mike slaps a hand over his face. "And I said you could come tech for us. Shoot me now and put me out of my misery?"

Kevin giggles, he can't help it. Mike just looks so utterly dismayed.

"Okay, at least you think it's funny."

"I'll take it as a compliment," Kevin says. "I've always been pretty good with my hands."

Mike stares at him. "I can't decide if that was straight, or a really bad pick-up line."

Kevin thinks about it for a second, and he can feel his ears flushing. "I didn't mean it that way!"

"Too bad."

Kevin looks over; Mike's trying to hide a smirk and not doing very well. "Oh?" He saunters across the room — or he tries, at least — and leans one hip against the counter next to Mike. "Want me to demonstrate my handiwork?" He even manages to say it with a straight face.

Mike snickers, though, and that cracks Kevin up again. "Okay, that was really bad." They both get themselves back under some sort of control, and Mike slides a hand up the back of Kevin's shoulder. "So, if that wasn't why you freaked out…?"

"We're good," Kevin assures him. "You know, there's a couch right there."

Mike makes a face. "It probably has things living in it."

"So we won't lie down on it or anything." Kevin grins. "We'll just have to be creative."

The couch may have things living in it, but it's a lot easier on Kevin's knees than the counter. And he's always liked problem-solving.

*

Mike didn't spot Kevin on the floor during the show, but that's still who he's expecting when Fez taps him on the shoulder as they're packing up and says, "Someone looking for you, Mike."

It's definitely not Kevin, though — it's two guys, for a start, both wearing hoodies and sunglasses. "You're Mike Carden?" the taller one asks.

"Yeah." Mike's first thought is _Men in Black!_ , the second is _Mob!_ , but since they don't look like they want to erase his memories or take him out back to the alley to teach him a lesson, maybe not.

"We'd like a word with you," the same one says. "In private."

Maybe Mike should give that Men in Black theory a little more consideration.

It doesn't look like he can really refuse, though. "Just let me get this," he says, and turns to finish packing up his guitar.

"Is everything okay?" Sarah whispers to him.

Mike glances sideways at the two men. They're just waiting for him, arms folded, giving no indication of going anywhere. "I hope so," he whispers back. "They say they just want to talk to me."

"Yell if you need help, okay?"

"You're first on my list if someone needs beating up," Mike promises.

Sarah smacks his arm. "You don't need to be sarcastic."

"Sorry." He's wasted as much time as he can fiddling with his guitar case, so he straightens up. "Okay, let's go."

The taller one leads the way through the halls and out the side door of the venue. There's a Town Car parked right outside, plain black with heavily tinted windows. One of the guys opens the door and Mike balks.

"I said I'd talk to you, not that I was up for kidnapping."

"We won't hurt you," the shorter, scruffy one says. "Promise."

He has a nice smile, but that's not enough for Mike to trust him. "Of course you'd say that."

The way the taller one's head moves suggests he's rolling his eyes. "We won't even leave the parking lot, okay?" He sounds just petulant enough about it that Mike gives in. He revises his guess of how old these two are, too.

One of them slides in next to him, the other one gets in the other side and leans forward to say something to the driver and raise the privacy screen. The car pulls away from the door, but true to their word, it only goes as far as the corner of the fenced lot, away from any snoops.

"Sorry for not introducing ourselves earlier," the one on Mike's right says. He hooks his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt an holds out a hand. "I'm Joe."

"And I'm Nick," says the other one.

Mike looks between them. "You're Kevin's brothers, right?" He's done some research over the last few days since Kevin's revelation. It broke his brain a little — he didn't imagine ever dating someone on a "Richest Under Thirty" list, if that's what he and Kevin are even doing — but he understands a little bit more why Kevin spooked in the parking lot. Some of the gossip sites seem determined to rip Joe, in particular, into as many dirty pieces as possible.

"Right," Nick says. "So I'm sure you understand why we had to come along and check you out."

"Where's Kevin?"

"Probably making pie crust." Joe grins. "We set Mom on him."

Nick glares a little at his brother, but he looks like he's biting back a smile, too. "Taking reports from our philanthropic arm."

Joe looks at one arm, then the other, then at Nick. "Huh?"

This time Mike can see Nick roll his eyes. "Mike, we're not trying to cause trouble for you, but—" he carries on right over Joe's quiet snort. " _But_ we felt an obligation to come make sure you're on the level and you're not going to cause trouble for Kevin."

"You had to do that in person?" Mike asks doubtfully.

Joe snorts again. "Well, no, duh. We're just nosy."

"Pretty much," Nick agrees.

"Okay." Mike really wishes he could watch both of them at once. "So what do you need to know?"

Joe's the one who answers, to his surprise. "I don't think you're planning to hurt him. But Kevin doesn't need any more people trying to use him. If you're just messing around with him — okay, it's too late to have never started, but it'd be better if you just walked away now."

"I'm not," Mike says quickly. He thinks about it for a second. "I don't think I am, anyway. I didn't — I'm not with him because I think I can get something from him."

Joe and Nick exchange a look over his head, but Mike can't decipher it. "You know he may not be able to admit he's dating a man anytime soon?" Nick asks.

"Why would anyone care who he dates?"

"People can care about all sorts of things," Joe says drily. "And we have some very stupid people on the Board."

"Oh." Mike hadn't thought about that part. If you're fabulously rich, with your own technological company, shouldn't you be able to do what you like? But of course people are paying attention, and yeah, Mike's seen firsthand that people can care about the stupidest things that are none of their business. "I can deal with that."

"Are you sure?" Joe presses.

Mike turns all the way around to look at him. "Do I look like any kind of trophy wife?" he asks.

There's a sudden cough behind him, but when he turns back, Nick looks perfectly composed. "If that ever comes up, you'll be signing the most comprehensive pre-nup ever," he says.

Mike's brain shuts down a little at the idea, but he checks back in when Joe claps him on the shoulder and pops open the door on his side. "For what it's worth, I think you're good for him." He's wearing his sunglasses again and has his hood pulled up. "Don't make me change my mind." He squeezes Mike's shoulder a little tighter and scoots out of the car to let Mike out.

Mike watches the car leave, then walks back to the venue to make sure no one's done anything stupid with his guitars. He really hopes none of his band ask him what that was about, because he doesn't know where he could even _start_.

*

The last show of the tour is in Chicago, which is pretty cool, and they're finishing up the same way they started, with a free concert in the park. Pritzker Pavilion looks way different from the stage than from walking past it or seeing it across a couple of streets; Mike kind of likes the view. He just hopes that the concert won't end the same way the last one did in New York.

Soundcheck goes without a hitch, other than the usual expected ones. Then they have a break for a couple of hours — not long enough to go much of anywhere, but long enough to get bored. Mike winds up with Sarah, which he could have predicted, getting lunch and then just wandering around Millennium Park.

"You have anyone coming to the show tonight?" she asks. "Other than the obvious, I mean?"

Mike ducks his head. "Nah, I'm going to go see family tomorrow, probably. I don't know if Kevin'll be able to make it tonight."

"What's up with him, anyway?" Sarah demands. "I mean, he's here and then he's not, and he's stood you up at least twice."

"It doesn't bother me." Not much, anyway — now that he has the explanation of being part of running a giant company, Mike can understand sudden crises that make Kevin have to disappear. It's just too bad he can't explain that to anyone else without including things that Kevin asked him not to.

"Bullshit. I saw you two nights ago, you looked like the kid who just watched the last puppy go home with someone else."

"I did _not._ " Mike pushes at her shoulder and she pushes back. They scuffle until Sarah's soda gets dumped all over the sidewalk and people are looking at them disapprovingly. "He said he'd try to make it tonight."

"Hmmm." She eyes him sideways. "Your boyfriend is a mysterious man, Mike Carden."

He rolls his eyes. "So how about you?"

She tries to hide a tiny smile behind the edge of her squashed cup. "I hope so."

"Oh? We gonna finally get to meet this mysterious someone you've mentioned?"

The smile grows. "Maybe."

"Fez'll have his heart broken."

"Maybe we'll invite him for a threesome." She slaps Mike on the shoulder as he coughs, and takes off running. "Come on, last one back to the pavilion's a rotten egg!"

"Sure." He saunters after her. He needs the time to think of the best way to get Fez to flip out.

*

The concert's good — not their best this tour, but it's up there. None of them have to think about the others even as much as they did at the first date — Mike can turn to his left and know Fez will be there, smiling like a goof but rock-steady playing; he knows to brace himself for Eric slamming into his shoulder during the bridge of "Everybody;" he knows he can turn back to Sarah and she'll open her eyes at just the right moment to grin at him. It's good, feeling like part of something again. He hasn't let himself think too far ahead, not like it's real, but he hopes.

If he turns the other way, to his right, he can see Kevin standing just offstage. There's more than one reason it's a good night.

Eric's talking about something up front, chatting to the crowd while Fez and Mike just sort of noodle along in the background, when things start to go weird. There's a rumble, and the stage shakes a little. Mike looks around but doesn't see anything, so he kind of keeps going. Then it happens again, and this time there are shouts of alarm out in the audience, not just the shrieks Eric usually causes.

Mike looks out over the lawn just as the stage shudders a third time. The trellis over the lawn _ripples_ , and there are more screams. He can see people in yellow see-me jackets around the open sides, but they aren't having any luck getting people to stop panicking and listen.

Eric picks up the microphone again. "Don't panic," he calls out. The rasp of feedback kind of undermines him, but he keeps going. "How about we all just stay calm, there's plenty of ways out. It'll be—" A fourth quake, stronger than the others, makes him break off while he fights to keep his feet. The steel pipes over the lawn twist, and then — start coming apart. They're not breaking, they look like they're coming alive.

Fez grabs Eric's arm and tugs him towards Mike's side of the stage. "I think we should get out of here," he yells over the groaning noise of the pipes.

Mike's not sure — the concrete shell has to offer some protection — but then one of the pipes curls around and _lunges_ at the stage, and yeah, getting out sounds great. Sarah's already gone, waiting for them in the wings with a set jaw, and Mike only pauses long enough to yank cables free before hustling after them.

"Kevin?" He was right here a minute ago. Shit. "Kevin!"

"He's probably outside already," Fez says. "Come on."

"Why does this keep happening to us?" Eric asks no one in particular as they hustle towards the exit. "We're not that bad, are we?"

Outside in the park, things aren't getting better. Longer lengths of the trellis are pulling free and diving around, sending people flying right and left. Mike can see flashing lights, and there are sirens, but he doesn't think Chicago PD are really equipped to deal with attack artwork.

"Look, there!" Sarah grabs his arm and points up. Other people are pointing at the sky too, and Mike squints against the lights to look.

It doesn't show up as well in the dim sky, but the candy-red gleam is unmistakeable. "What, again?" There's got to be some sort of limit to how many times you get rescued by flying superheroes, isn't there?

"Awesome!" Sarah's practically jumping up and down in excitement. Fez lets go of Eric long enough to yank her out of the way of a wrecked chair tumbling past, and she goes right back to bouncing.

It is pretty cool — Hardshell swoops back and forth, the jets under his feet and hands flaring as he darts away from the twining pipes. Mike's not sure if they can see him or what, but they're certainly concentrating on attacking Hardshell now, rather than causing mayhem in the crowd.

A coiled length of pipe comes out of nowhere behind Hardshell and smacks him in the back, sending him tumbling through the air. Sarah squeaks and clutches Mike's arm, and Mike clutches right back. "Is he okay?"

"Over there!" Mike can't see who yelled, but he looks. There are two more points of light zooming around in the sky, and as they barrel closer, they resolve into blue and purple versions of Hardshell, both of them harder to see against the darkening sky.

"Which one's which, again?" Sarah yells in his ear.

Mike shakes his head. "I think the purple one's Bulletproof, can't remember the other."

Bulletproof really does have a jinxed name; almost immediately a pipe swings around and smacks him the same way it did Hardshell. He rallies, though, and Hardshell is already circling the trellis again, looking for an opening. They're all clearly used to working together, each of them closing weak spots and watching the others' backs. They keep moving, and the pipes can't seem to get a good lock on any of them.

It's a quick wrap-up from there; the three heroes subdue the writhing pipes, and one of them darts off to one side and comes back holding a shouting man mid-air. The police make their way through the crowd and take custody of him, shoo off the crowds of people — there are ambulances around the edges of the crowd, like there were in New York, and beyond them are the news vans.

"I guess the concert's cancelled, huh?" Fez asks.

"Probably," Eric says. "Wait, has anyone called Tony?"

"He's probably in the middle of that," Mike says, watching the reporters. "I've gotta go — check something." He makes a wide circle of the area, stopping by every ambulance to check if Kevin's there. He reaches for his phone, but of course he didn't have it onstage. With luck, it's still in his bag in the green room.

"Kevin?" No one turns around, so he keeps looking. He worries that he missed him somewhere in the crowd, or maybe he's looking for Mike at the same time — or maybe he's at the next ambulance. "Kevin?"

Even if Kevin's nearby, he probably wouldn't be able to hear Mike over all the shouting everyone else is doing.

His circle has brought him close to where the reporters have the armored heroes corralled. There are flashbulbs, and TV cameras, and a lot of shouted questions. Mike cranes his neck to see if Kevin's maybe in the cluster of people beyond them.

He doesn't hear the question, but the way the blue and purple suits turn to look at each other makes a spark happen in his brain. He's seen that look before, and it wasn't even that long ago. He stares at the three, because it's impossible, but then yells again anyway because it's worth a try. "Kevin!"

None of them twitch, but Hardshell turns his head a little and looks straight at Mike. Then he turns back to whoever's asking the next stupid question, but Mike's certain. He waits while everyone gets their photo-op and the reporters disperse to actually look at the _rest_ of the scene, and as it looks like the heroes are about to take off again, he throws himself forward and grabs onto Hardshell's wrist as hard as he can.

"I need to talk to you."

*

"I need to talk to you."

Kevin tries to tug his arm free gently, but Mike's got too good a grip on his wrist — he's going to hurt him if he really tries to free himself. He tries verbal discouragement. "I'm sorry, I can't stay." It's harder than he thought to ignore the flash of hurt in Mike's eyes.

Nick comes on the radio, even though he's standing right next to Kevin. "How about we take this out of here? People are starting to pay attention again." He's right — the reporters are looking at them again, and given another second, they'll be back over and then there'll be no way of getting out of this neatly.

"This way." Joe takes off and leads the way out of the park. Kevin wraps his free arm around Mike and follows, more slowly because of the unbalanced weight and because he doesn't want to give Mike whiplash, either.

They land on a roof a few blocks away; Kevin's not sure what it's the roof _of_ , but it's nice and flat, and has a high parapet around the edge. He puts Mike down, but Mike doesn't let go of him. "I really need to talk to you."

"I don't know who you are." Kevin's really glad for the face plate for once; he's not sure he could control his expression without it. Of course, if he wasn't wearing it, they wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place.

"Yeah, you do." Mike crowds in as close as the bulk of the suit will let him, and barely whispers, but the suit's mics pick it up. "Kevin."

Kevin freezes. How did Mike — he's sure he didn't drop any clues, he didn't even — what the heck is he supposed to do now?

"I can see you two have some things to work out," Joe says cheerfully. "We'll just be going." It looks like he and Nick are arguing, but they're doing it where Kevin can't hear. It takes a few seconds, but finally Joe just points, and he and Nick both leave.

"I'm right, aren't I?" says Mike.

"How did you guess?"

"Your brothers blew the game, actually. Um, can we talk without— " Mike gestures at the face plate. "I feel like I'm having a conversation with a bucket."

Kevin looks around, but of course there's no question of taking the armor off here. For one, they'd be stuck. "Hang on." He pulls Mike close again and launches straight up, until they must be out of range of anyone looking for him from the ground. It's dark up here, anyway, and the news choppers over Millennium Park are looking down, and low enough to avoid easily.

The suit isn't happy about opening the helmet, giving him all sorts of warning about thinner air, but it's still plenty breathable — he made sure of that for Mike, anyway. He tells the suit yes, he's sure he wants to do that, and the face plate finally peels back.

Mike doesn't say anything. Kevin's sure he's screwed up irreparably — having a secret identity is sort of a big lie to keep up to someone you're sort of dating. "Um."

"I don't think I was actually sure before you did that," Mike says at last. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you," Kevin blurts out. "If anyone knew — well, if they connect me to you, and know who I am, it could be really dangerous for you. I don't want to—" He cuts himself off and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"I think I get it," Mike says. "It's—" He makes a face. "It's not okay, but I think I get it."

Kevin would go limp with relief, except that would be a really bad idea right now. "Okay."

"I'm still pissed at you, though," Mike adds, and Kevin tenses up again. "All this time you could _fly_ , and you've been holding out on me." He thumps Kevin's chest plate for emphasis.

"Sorry?"

Mike grins at him. "I'm pretty sure you can make it up to me."

"I'll try," Kevin promises. "Um, you're not dumping me? Just to be sure."

Mike sobers and looks down — then hastily looks up at Kevin again. "Okay, not doing that again. Um, no, or at least not right now over this. You're gonna have to do some explaining, but — yeah, I know why you couldn't say anything before."

"You're the first person outside Nick and Joe who knows," Kevin offers. "Nick's really paranoid about security."

"Wait, your _parents_ don't know?" Kevin shakes his head. "Okay, I feel a little better at being left out of the loop. But we need to talk."

"Maybe not in mid-air?" Kevin suggests. "I should probably go help figure out how that guy did that anyway, and let you go back to your band and all."

"I wanna try something first." Mike grins again. "How good is your concentration?"

"What do you—" The rest of the sentence gets lost in Mike's mouth as he leans forward. Kevin can't get him as close as he'd like, not without bruising Mike on the edges of the armor, but it's still — it's good. Mike doesn't kiss like he's angry, or like Kevin betrayed him; it's the same as it ever was, and Kevin thinks he's always going to want more.

A vicious beeping intrudes on his consciousness — the suit's trying to tell him that they're falling back down into visible range from the ground. Kevin breaks the kiss abruptly and takes them back up. "Um, apparently not that good?"

"We'll just have to practice, yeah?" Mike looks hopeful — and a little unsure.

"Yeah, I think — yeah."

"Cool." Mike looks down, and doesn't flinch this time. "I guess I really should get back. People are going to worry."

"Yeah." A sudden thought seizes Kevin. "You can't tell anyone, you know that."

Mike's look is scornful. "Of course not. I'll tell them I was looking for you — Kevin-you — and got turned around by the lights or something."

"Sorry, I just — sorry." Kevin feels like he's apologizing and awful lot, but then, he probably ought to be. "And I will be back."

"You'd better." Mike kisses him again, just a quick peck, then turns away. "We'd better go."

Kevin cruises down to an uncrowded spot in the park and drops Mike gently in a bunch of trees. He waves silently and shoots up, going much faster than he could with an unprotected passenger to avoid anyone seeing him, and heads for home.

When he gets back to New York, there's already a text waiting for him: _I'm holding u to that promise. Need lots of practice_

Kevin grins at his phone and heads down to the lab. Maybe he can convince Nick that mid-air make-outs are combat training.


End file.
